Beaming Sonny Home (6 page)

“Oh, I beg to differ,” said Rita. “Taking human beings against their will into a house trailer is a lot worse than robbing a bank.”

“Taking human beings into a house trailer
of
their
own
free
will
is a lot worse than robbing a bank,” said Marlene. Mattie had uncovered the phone in order to speak, but now she covered it up again with the meaty part of her palm. It was obvious that Winken, Blinken, and Nod had no intentions of coming ashore yet.

“You know, Marlene, I ain't stupid,” Rita said. “You're making remarks like that about house trailers only because me and Henry and the boys live in one.”

Marlene patiently considered this. “No, I ain't,” she said, and Mattie knew darn well she was lying. “It's just that you never know when a house trailer might decide to go wheels up.”

“Be quiet,” Mattie warned them. It was bad enough that her only boy was being watched on the news by all of Mattagash. But did they have to hear her three daughters warring it out in her living room?

“By the way,” Gracie asked. “How
do
Henry and Willard and Josh manage to fit into them low-ceiling little rooms? Don't they bump their heads?” Marlene tittered, an irritating sound even if you liked her. Rita's face was becoming nearly transparent. Mattie could see anger rising to the surface of the skin, like something in a pond that has sunk below the water and is just beginning to emerge again.

“Henry and Willard and Josh fit wherever I tell them to,” Rita said. “Which is a talent you obviously never learned at college, Gracie. I don't suppose Charlie has to worry about bumping his head on Sally Fennelson's trailer ceiling, considering how much time he spends all curled up in her bed.” It was Gracie's turn to fill up with anger, her eyes going all gauzy and her left eyebrow beginning to twitch above her eye like a thin brown fish.

“Just for the record,” Gracie screamed, “
I
was the one who left Charlie! I threw his ass out!”

“Who said anything about who left who?” Rita asked.

“I think house trailers can shape your personality,” Marlene said thoughtfully. “They can make you think small for your whole life. I don't think many successful people grew up in house trailers. Someone should do a study on that.”

Now Rita was furious. “Then your precious husband, Wesley Stubbs, must have been
conceived
in one. Everybody in Mattagash knows that Wesley spends more time in front of the television than a turtle spends in its shell.”

“Hang on a minute, will you, Milly?” Mattie said into the receiver. “I'll be right with you.” Then she tucked the receiver under the pit of her arm, where nothing could seep through to Milly's anxious ears, not even the stench of body sweat. “I said to shut up, and I mean it,” Mattie told the girls. “If you intend to stay here in my house, you'll keep your big mouths closed. I'm within an inch of tossing all three of you out into the front yard, along with them big chunky pocketbooks. It's bad enough I had to listen to this bedlam while you were all in high school and I was still legally responsible for you. But I ain't anymore. And I'm telling you to park your lips.”

Marlene grabbed her half pack of cigarettes from off the kitchen table and went out the back door, letting the screen slam with a thud. Gracie picked up the crossword page from the
Bangor
Daily
News
and disappeared into her old bedroom. Mattie heard the springs of the sofa bed squeak. With the other two women gone, Rita became instantly confidential. But Mattie was ready for it, knew just what to expect. At a pit stop somewhere along the years of her growing up, Rita had gotten it into her head that being the oldest child meant something.

“If you ask me,” Rita whispered, “them two could stand a lesson in manners.”

“I said
shut
up,
” Mattie repeated. “And I meant
shut
up.”

“Oh, good Lord, Mama,” said Rita, waving a hand. Mattie met Rita's eyes, poured herself deep into them, a constant stare, until Rita was reasonably sure that her mother was furious.

“Now I intend to take this call,” Mattie said softly, “from another bigmouthed Mattagash female, and I intend to do it in peace. So how's about you go out to the front yard, Rita, and talk to St. Francis of Assisi?”

“I
will
say this,” said Rita, gathering up her own crumply pack of cigarettes. “I agree with Gracie and Marlene about
one
thing. You're gonna go off your rocker over this if you ain't careful, Mama. You're gonna go to
you
know
where
in a handbasket.”

The front door slammed with such force that Mattie feared a window might shatter. But then, Rita had always had lots in common with jets breaking the sound barrier. Mattie waited for a few seconds, breathed in the sweet notes of silence, and then she unburied the receiver from her armpit. She had no doubt that Milly was still in there, down in the coils and wires, waiting for her own breath of clean air. Gossips could hold their breath forever. Gossips would one day inherit the entire earth, just like those hard-shelled insects Mattie had seen on
Nova
, insects immune to
everything
.

“Now then, Milly,” Mattie said nicely into the phone. “What's on your mind?” Milly acted as if being kept waiting for five minutes on the end of a receiver, kept dangling like a fish on a line, was second nature to her.

“I just wanted to let you know that a reporter from the
Bangor
Daily
has been nosing around the store,” said Milly. “He's been asking all kinds of questions about Sonny. But everyone down here has been filling him full of lies. You should've heard the story Donnie Henderson told him, that Sonny was adopted by older folks who found him floating in the Mattagash River in a potato basket. And they raised him up until they died. Donnie even sent them out to the Catholic graveyard to find Ronald and Louise Gifford's graves. Now, you know as well as I do that Ronald and Louise never had a single child between them. I don't think the state of Maine would've let them two have a
cat
. But that reporter even took photographs. Rosemary Craft saw him down there in the pines, among the tombstones, snapping away on one knee.”

Mattie had let this stream of words come and go, had been swept along in the images of what was being said: a nosy reporter from Bangor, a potato basket, sweet old simpleminded Ronald Gifford with his slow walk, Louise Gifford's big garden of colored flowers, Donnie Henderson's mischievous face. It was Donnie Henderson who had told some journalist at
Downeast
magazine that all of Mattagash was descended from three sisters from Watertown who had canoed up to Mattagash looking for husbands. And that poor journalist had gone ahead and written it down, without ever once checking it out. It was true, as Donnie often noted, that once you cross the Aroostook County line, heading south in Maine, the fewer mountains and the less gray matter you were likely to encounter. Folks farther south tended to believe almost anything you told them. Not like Mattagashers. You could tell a Mattagasher that blue was blue and he still wouldn't believe you. Right away he'd suspect you were up to something. And maybe Sonny didn't have a glut of friends in Bangor, hanging out at the house trailer to show their support, but there were plenty of folks willing to go to bat for him in Mattagash.

“What else did he want to know?” Mattie asked.

“Well, mostly, he was looking for Sonny's relations,” said Milly, “until he met up with Donnie. I suspect you'll read about Sonny's adoption in the papers tomorrow.” Mattie felt fatigue slipping in, claiming her mind, and fatigue was a bad thing this early in the game. If only those big, loud girls would go home, she might be able to get a logical thought to float into her head, a suggestion pertaining to Sonny's newest adventure.

She had just hung up the phone when it rang again. It was probably Milly, phoning back to say that little green aliens were now asking questions about Sonny, wanting to know which planet he'd been born on. Mattie heard the sofa bed squeak in Gracie's room.

“I'll get it,” Mattie called out. “It's only Milly phoning back.” No answer came from behind Gracie's door, which was just fine with Mattie. She imagined Gracie's lip hanging like a flap down from her mouth. Gracie had been the best pouter of all three girls. Mattie picked up the phone and, suddenly, the receiver pressed against her face, she knew. She knew and she could say nothing.

“Mama?” Sonny's sweet voice asked. “Are you there? How's my favorite girlfriend doing?” Mattie reeled an inch or so backward, as though a hand had come out of the phone and pushed her, the push of birth, the same little push you'd probably feel in death.

“Son, what have you gone and done?” Mattie asked, her voice a low whisper, so afraid one of her daughters might hear. “Sonny, what's gonna happen to you
now?”

“I'm gonna be just fine, Mama,” said Sonny. “Vera and Steph have been taking real good care of me. I'm sorry this got on the news. I never thought of that.” No, of course, he never thought of
that.

“Let them women go, Sonny,” said Mattie. “Let them go right this minute. Open that trailer door while I'm still on this phone and turn them loose. It's your only chance. This is serious business, son.” She had canted her head toward the front door, where she could see Rita pacing back and forth on the porch, smoking a cigarette.

“Don't you worry none, Mama,” said Sonny. “I'll get this straightened out. Me and the girls here were just discussing how to go about it.” The line cracked and Mattie could hear what sounded like mice feet running about.

“Is this line being tapped, Sonny? Is that what I hear?” Mattie waited, her breath curled and silent in her throat, afraid she might miss the reply.

“I know they tapped
my
line,” said Sonny, “but this is Sheila's business line, for her Avon customers, and it's under her former married name. I don't think they know about it. I ain't dealing with Sherlock Holmes here, Mama. The chief of police thinks John Lennon is still alive. I don't believe they looked to see if there was more than one line. But just in case, I probably won't be calling you again. And, Mama?”

“Yes, Sonny?”

“I don't want you to come driving down here thinking you can help me. I want you to promise me that. You can't do a single thing down here. You stay right where you are, with a nice big puzzle and a hot cup of tea. Will you promise me, Mama?”

“I promise,” Mattie said. The line crackled and she felt as if lightning might come out in a ball of fire. She looked toward the window and saw Rita flick her cigarette butt out into the flowers around the St. Francis birdbath.

“Baby,” said Mattie to her only boy. “Sweetie pie, you gotta straighten this out while there's still time.” She knew Rita would fill up the front door at any minute. Rita would roll into the scene like an unwanted snowball. Then what would those big awful daughters have to say? That Sonny had called his mama for help? That Sonny was nothing but a no-good mama's boy? But he wasn't calling for any help at all. He was calling to tell Mattie that he was all right, that he was in the middle of the pond but he was swimming like hell for shore. Sonny Gifford seemed prepared to get out of this one by himself. Sonny and
the
girls
. They'd be on his side by now, no doubt about that. That scrawny little poodle was probably fetching Sonny his slippers and a rolled-up newspaper.

“Mama?” said Sonny. Mattie saw Rita's shape move past the front windows on the porch, headed directly for the door.

“What is it, Sonny? What is it, sweetheart?”

“I don't want you to worry a nickel over this. You hear me? You worried enough in your life. And I bet them sisters of mine, them three Pac Monsters, are going at you tooth and nail. You keep your door locked, Mama, you hear me? You know darn well they're gonna come down on you like cops on a doughnut if you let them.”

“Sonny,” Mattie said. But no other words rose up in her throat. There was nothing she could say. A sense of motherly helplessness overtook her. She felt tears forming.

“Now, it's just a matter of time until they find this other line,” said Sonny, “so I won't be phoning you no more. But I want you to give your best dress to the dry cleaner's truck and then put your teeth to soak. The minute I get to Mattagash, I'm taking my favorite girlfriend dancing.” Mattie smiled. Sonny knew darn well how proud she was that her teeth were all still her own, especially since that awful dentist down in Bixley had plucked out most of the teeth belonging to Mattie's generation. Some people would do anything for a buck. Sonny wasn't like that, though, and this was what Mattie wished the whole world knew about her son. He was good and kind, the sort of kid who steered his bicycle around snakes crossing the road when other boys rode right over the bodies. If there had been a traffic light in Mattagash, Sonny would've spent each afternoon down there helping old ladies cross the street. If there had been an animal shelter, he'd have passed his idle hours finding homes for cats and dogs. He dragged home every stray animal he ever saw as it was. And all during his three bumpy years of high school, Sonny sent valentines to every single homely girl in Mattagash, girls who didn't have a prayer of getting one otherwise. And he always signed them “A Secret Admirer” so that no one would know. Mattie even helped him lick the stamps one year. This was her boy. She saw the front doorknob turning, imagined Rita's chubby fingers on the other side of the knob.

“I love you, Sonny Gifford,” Mattie whispered, and she hoped Sonny heard her, hoped the words were loud enough. “I'm putting my teeth to soak.”